


Lover Man (Oh, Where Can You Be?)

by spoondragon



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-War, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13400676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoondragon/pseuds/spoondragon
Summary: After the war, Eugene gets dragged to a brothel during Sid’s raucous New Orleans bachelor party. While there, he runs into a familiar, but wholly unexpected, face.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snafurougarou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snafurougarou/gifts).



> This story is for snafurougarou, who encouraged and inspired me every step of the way, and who continues to do so every day.

**MERRIELL ******

********

********

Bachelor parties were the worst, any whore worth a dime would tell you so. Big group of guys'd come crashing through the doors like they owned the place - loud, drunk, and half the time as ready for a fight as they were for a fuck. Talking a big game about the latter, only to end up pushing rope thanks to the old whiskey dick. You'd wear yourself out trying to get them off, only for them to pout and whine when their time was up but their peckers still weren't. They were rude to the staff, rough with the girls and prone to pissing in the plants. Merriell couldn't stand them.

So, when word traveled through the house that there was a bachelor party downstairs, he rolled his eyes, rolled a cigarette, and propped himself against the mezzanine banister to watch the shit show unfold. More than likely he wouldn't be called down. Merriell and the other boys weren't exactly what you'd call advertised specials. They were more like – how did Miss J put it? _Sumptuous delicacies for the refined palate. _(Queers.) And there weren't liable to be many of those in a bachelor party. No matter. He made most of his money off regulars these days anyway, which was the way to do it. No taking chances with walk-ins and more reliable pay besides.__

____

____

Flirtatious cooing wafted up the stairs like perfume, followed by nervous low-toned laughter. Tonight's bachelors must've been well-behaved. _Boring. _Merriell pushed himself off the banister with a disinterested sigh. He turned around and was about to head back to his room – or at least the room he occupied while on the clock – when an achingly familiar sound met his ears.__

_____ _

_____ _

"Sid! Damn it! Quit that now!" 

Merriell stopped dead in his tracks, cigarette dangling loosely from his lip. It couldn't be. There was no way. He was hearing things. Losing it at last. The war had finally caught up to him and now he was going Asiatic. Lots of guys talked like that, had that 'Bama twang - like they were gnashing a pipe stem between gritted teeth. Sure. Lots of guys. 

"Well shit, Eugene, if I can't take my clothes off in a cathouse, where can I?" 

Merriell steadied himself with a hand on the banister. His legs suddenly felt like Jell-o. _Eugene._

____

____

A thousand images flashed through Merriell's head at the sound of that name. A thousand memories hoarded in the locked places of his heart spilling out. Copper hair, bright like a new penny in the sun (rusty with caked blood and filth); big brown eyes, innocent as a doe's (hard and burning like coal); a dopey, crooked smile (a feral baring of teeth); murmured conversations pressed shoulder to shoulder in muddy foxholes (screaming at each other in the relentless rain). Shared laughter, cigarettes, glances. The weight of trust, the chill of fear, the burn of desire. _Eugene. ___

____

____

Merriell turned back around and cautiously approached the bannister. He squeezed himself between a decorative palm and the wall. If it was his Eugene, he had to know. But under no fucking circumstances could Eugene discover him here. Merriell had worked too damn hard to keep him - and every other person outside these four walls - in the dark about what exactly he did to pay the bills. He had slyly evaded or just outright ignored all the idle chit chat about "back home" that Marines were so fond of. A crude joke or a blank stare was usually all it took to shut them down. He had dodged those social bullets in boot camp, throughout the war and on into China, not to mention on that godforsaken train ride. Everybody running their mouths as fast as their hearts were beating, too anxious to sit quiet with their thoughts. But he couldn't let himself think about the train. Not now. Merriell steeled himself and peered down into the sitting room. 

It was him. Before he could take in anything else about the scene below, he knew. It was him, without a doubt. Eugene motherfucking Sledge. Fucking Sledgehammer himself. After spending every goddamn day for two years close enough to count every one of his eyelashes and map out the constellations in his freckles, he would recognize the bastard anywhere. But he wasn't anywhere. He was in the sitting room. Of the brothel. Where Merriell worked. _Shitshitshit!_

_____ _

_____ _

___Thankfully, Eugene seemed to be pretty well preoccupied. He was trying to wrangle a completely shitfaced and partially naked blonde guy (who looked vaguely familiar to Merriell) down off of one of the tables. Blondie was either doing the world's worst strip-tease or having some kind of a fit up there. Eugene was doing his level best to get him down without getting a boot to the face. Giggling and whooping and generally making all kinds of racket while not doing a damn thing much else, were a handful of the girls and what must've been the rest of the bachelor party._ _ _

_____ _

_____ _

After trying a real acrobatic move, Blondie lost his footing (socks were no good for table dancing) and came crashing down ass over teakettle. The bottle of champagne he'd been slinging around came down with him, shattering against the table and sending shards of glass and sticky booze everywhere. A perfect distraction. 

In the chaos, Merriell intended to slink back to his room and pretend he hadn't seen a damn thing. Maybe drown his sorrows with the emergency ration of rum he kept in the closet. However, a very distinctive rustle of skirts changed his mind. Instead of retreat, Merriell tried to remember every bit of camouflage the Marines had taught him. If Miss J caught him lollygagging, he'd be called down to clean up the mess and maybe even show Eugene and his buddies the door. He desperately tried to become one with the decorative palm.

 

**EUGENE ******

********

********

"Oh my, my! Seems there's been a little rumpus! Is everyone all right?" 

Eugene whipped his head up at the unmistakable sound of a southern woman deeply displeased but too polite to say so. He immediately regretted the sudden action as the room spun around him. The voice was steel thinly veiled by silk and in his current state, reminded him far too much of his mother's. The woman at the top of the stairs, however, could not have been more different. Hands on hips, she looked out over the scene below her like a general surveying her troops; keen, assessing, and above all, in control. 

But no general Eugene knew of looked like she did. She was a knockout - even Eugene could appreciate that - with the type of exaggerated assets and fine bone structure that Hollywood starlets paid good money for under the table. She was also scantily clad in some kind of gauzy nightgown that left very little to the imagination. 

Sid audibly snapped his jaw shut before sheepishly mumbling that he was, indeed, all right. Eugene shot him a glare. _All right my ass, you drunk fool. _His friend was presently sitting on the floor, bare from the waist up (and minus one shoe) in a mess of broken glass and champagne, nursing an assortment of cuts and bruises and what would probably be a battered ego in the morning. Eugene may have been drunk as a skunk, but Sid was the jackass.__

____

____

"Rita, go fetch me the first aid kit. Lola, go wake Mabel. Have her clean this mess up. Shayla, you best wipe that smirk off your face and get upstairs with your man there!" The woman, who Eugene assumed to be the madam of the house, commanded her troops as she descended the stairs in a flurry of taffeta and silk. "Ya'll girls just standing 'round here laughing like a bunch of hyenas while we got a fine, young gentleman here bleeding on the floor. I never..."

The girls all skittered off to their assigned duties, dragging their partners with them. Eugene felt a slim arm snake around his waist. A pretty brunette with nice-smelling hair _(Sharon? Shirley?) _seemed to have adopted Eugene as her companion at some point. He didn't mind. He liked her. She had a warm, wise smile and an interesting way of talking. She was from somewhere else, but he couldn't remember where.__

____

____

"Come on." She ushered him toward the stairs while the madam of the house fussed over Sid on a sofa. Eugene hesitated, unsure if he should leave his friend unattended.

"I do apologize, ma'am. We didn't mean to disturb you or make such a mess," Sid was saying, obviously abashed. "It's just - I'm getting married is all..."

"Married? Is that right? Well, congratulations, mon cher!" The woman laughed merrily and kissed Sid on each cheek, pressing him to her ample bosom. "You here to sow them wild oats then?" she purred, caressing the shell of his ear with one red-lacquered finger.

Sid would be fine. Eugene allowed himself to drift upstairs with the lovely _(Sheila?) _.__

____

____

The hand rail was cool and smooth under his hand. It felt nice. Was it oak? Some kind of maple? He didn't know enough about wood. He would have to ask... Where were they going? To her room? Oh. Yeah. That. This wasn't her house. This was a brothel. And she was taking him upstairs to conduct business. Eugene felt his cheeks flame, his mouth suddenly full of ash. He turned to say – something – to her and was again met with her comforting smile. She was so pretty. He wished, not for the first time, that it mattered.

"Here we are!" she announced breezily as they came to a door. 

He smiled awkwardly and followed her inside.

Shayla _(that was it!) _flopped herself down on the edge of the bed. She toed off her high-heeled shoes, flexing her toes, and rolling her ankles. When Eugene faltered, she patted the mattress beside her invitingly. He sat, a polite distance between them, clammy hands folded in his lap. She turned to face him and laid her hand on his.__

____

____

"Hey, don't be shy. I don't bite... hard," she winked and laughed at her own bad joke. Eugene forced a dry chuckle.

"I'm not shy. It's just that uh - " Eugene really didn't know how to say this. He had never made any mention of it before, quite the opposite in fact. But liquid courage, and the way Shayla's hand was venturing boldly into intimate territory, forced the words out. 

"I don't like girls!" he yelped. "Not that way. I mean, you're very pretty. It's just - I only went with you because - So they would think..." he trailed off helplessly.

"Ohhhh ok! You're - " Shayla made a wobbly hand gesture. Eugene detected no change in her sunny disposition. Only mild surprise and dawning realization. Still, he felt heat prickle across his cheeks. He shrugged, wiping his sweaty hands on his slacks. 

"Yeah. So, let's just pretend that we had a real good time, ok? I promise I'll pay you just the same as if we did." 

"Sure. No problem," she replied easily, shrugging a delicate shoulder. She rifled through her hand bag and produced a stick of Doublemint. She held it out to him, brows raised. "Gum?" He shook his head. She shrugged again and popped it in her mouth.

They were quiet for a moment, save for the smacking of her gum. Eugene suddenly felt exhausted. He let himself fall backwards onto the bed with a sigh. He folded his arms behind his head and studied the water stains on the ceiling. 

"So, no girls... what about boys?" There wasn't a trace of judgment in Shayla's voice. No disgust. Just plain, honest curiosity. 

Eugene let out a sudden bark of laughter. He had never imagined a scenario like this one. It was totally surreal. Just chatting with a total stranger about his deviant sexual desires; a typical Saturday night. No big deal.

"Well not boys. I'm not a pervert," he explained, sobering as he tried to articulate his feelings for the first time outside of his own head. "But um yeah... men, guys... around my age I guess, maybe a little older... yeah. That's - that's what I like." 

Another giggle bubbled up out of him. Not because it was particularly funny. But because he felt an almost giddy sense of relief sweep over him at the admission. Part of him expected the cops to bust down the door and arrest him on the spot. But another, very drunk, part of him wanted to throw open the window and shout it again.

"Well, I just so happen to know a guy 'around your age, maybe a little older'," Shayla said over her shoulder. She got up and walked to the shabby vanity in the corner. "He's cute too. Like actually cute, I'm not just saying that," she continued, bending at the waist and peering into the mirror. She fluffed and mussed her hair, pulling a few dark tendrils out around her face, then ran her little finger around the edge of her lips, smudging her artfully applied cherry lipstick. "He's kinda skinny, tan, got these big dreamy eyes..." It wasn't difficult for Eugene to conjure up an image. Still he hummed indecisively, picking at the coverlet.

"Come on, why don't you actually have some fun tonight? Instead of just pretending," Shayla suggested, smiling warmly at his reflection. "I know just the guy."

 

**MERRIELL ******

********

********

Merriell poked his head out from under the pillow long enough to take a deep swig from the bottle on the nightstand, then burrowed back under again. What were the fucking odds? Out of all the cat houses in New Orleans - and you'd better believe there were a fair few – Eugene Sledge just happened to grace this one with his presence. And not only that, out of all the girls working the house that night, Eugene had just happened to choose Shayla. So now Merriell would be treated to the dulcet tones of Eugene fucking somebody else right next door. _Fan-fucking-tastic. ___

____

____

As soon as he'd spotted Shayla leading Eugene upstairs, Merriell had bolted for his room. He'd been operating on some kind of autopilot like a spooked critter running for its hole, but it wasn't as if he'd had many options anyway. He obviously couldn't have gone downstairs and he couldn't very well have just waltzed into one of the other rooms unexpectedly. Nope, he'd been fucked – and not in the fun way. So, he'd grabbed emergency provisions (rum, smokes and as many pillows as he could find) and prepared to hunker down and weather the storm. As he settled in, he sent up a silent prayer that Shay's headboard didn't start slamming against the wall as it tended to by the end of the day. (They moved the goddamn things away from the walls at the beginning of each shift, but they'd always migrate right back, propelled inch by inch by each client's thrusts.)

Completely against his will, Merriell started to wonder what kind of lay Eugene was. Did he live up to his Sledgehammer nickname? Breaking the bed slats and making his partners scream? Was he loud? A dirty talker? Or was he quiet and gentle, happy to let his partner take the lead? It wasn't the first time these questions had crossed Merriell's mind, but it was definitely the most inconvenient. He punched the pillows helplessly and tried to ignore his dick's interest in the line of thought.

Through his improvised pillow earmuffs, he heard the muffled sound of rhythmic thumping. He groaned and squeezed the cotton tighter against his head. He vaguely wondered if you could suffocate yourself. Probably not. He pulled the pillow off long enough to take a desperate drag from his cigarette.

"Merry! God damnit! Open up!"

Wait. Was that Shayla? What sounded like thumping through the pillow was apparently knocking. Why the fuck was Shayla at his door? Didn't she have gingers to fuck and souls to crush? Merriell warily climbed out of his misery nest and made his way to the door. 

"The fuck you want Shay?" He snarled through the crack in the door.

"Damn, what crawled up your ass?" She casually smacked her gum, and it made him want to strangle her – almost as much as her sex hair and BJ-smudged lipstick. _That didn't take long _, he thought sullenly.__

____

____

"Anyway, I got a proposition for ya. One of the guys from the bachelor party – young, cute, real polite – he says he doesn't like girls. Maybe wants to try what else we got on offer?" At this she made a show of eyeballing him up and down.

Merriell's head spun. What the fuck was going on? Was this a dream? An elaborate prank? She was definitely talking about Eugene, of that he was fairly sure but - 

"He doesn't like girls? The redhead? From the bachelor party? Wants a guy?" He barely stopped himself from shaking her by the shoulders, his mind tripping over itself to catch up.

"Yeah! That's what I said, dummy! God, are you ok? You been drinkin'? You know Miss Josephine will give you hell if she -" 

"Send him over. Gimme five minutes," Merriell cut her off. There was still a chance that this was all a set up or some kind of hallucination, but he was damn well gonna go with it regardless.

Shayla raised her eyebrows, huffed a little laugh and mouthed the word 'ok' as she backed away from the door. He had five minutes. Five minutes to wrap his head around what in the ever-loving fuck was happening - and five minutes to make it seem like he hadn't just been wallowing in booze, smoke and self-pity. 

Merriell threw on his robe and raked his fingers through his hair. In a few minutes he'd be face to face with Eugene for the first time in – shit, was it six months? Seven? The number seemed meaningless. It felt like an eternity since he'd gotten off that train, but it also felt like yesterday. 

He stashed the rum, tossed his cigarettes onto the dresser and hastily tidied the bed - the bed he might be sharing with Eugene in a few minutes. It seemed impossible. He'd spent years silently craving Eugene's touch, thinking he didn't have a chance in hell. But lo and behold, Eugene had been queer all along. And apparently not quite as innocent as Merriell had always assumed, seeing as how he'd just agreed to pay a strange man for sex. Merriell shook his head at the absurdity of the situation as he threw open the balcony door, waving as much stale smoke as he could outside. 

He dashed into the bathroom, rinsed his mouth and tried again to tame his curls. What would Eugene think when he realized Merriell was the strange man he'd be paying for sex? Other than the occasional heated look, Eugene had never given any indication that he was interested in him. They had a connection, that much had been obvious from the start. But was it lust or a different sort of bond, just as intimate, but born of war? He put down his comb. His hair would just get frizzy if he fussed with it anymore. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, careful not to meet his own eyes. It would have to do. _Lord knows he's seen me lookin' worse. ___

____

____

Hands shaking, he lit another cigarette and arranged himself by the balcony doors. He was going for casual, confident, yet fuckable. He fiddled with the belt on his robe. There was a soft knock at the adjoining door, the creak of its rusty hinge and footsteps. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and willed himself to turn around.

 

**EUGENE ******

********

********

Eugene really wished he'd brought his damn pipe. Sid was always making fun of him for it though, so he'd left it in Mobile. He forced himself to stop bouncing his leg. It was making the bed springs squeak and reminding him of things that were a little too pertinent. Shayla had just gone to arrange his – well his date, he supposed. His date with a man... a man who'd almost definitely be putting out. That's what Eugene was paying for, after all. 

He pitched forward, head in his hands, silent laughter shaking his shoulders. This was madness. If Sid or his parents or anyone knew what he was about to do... he could just imagine their faces. Scandalized, ashamed, disgusted. But screw it. Screw them. Eugene had committed far worse sins on Peleliu and Okinawa. _A pair of dark, almond eyes draining of life, a baby sobbing in terror, a frail, ruined body cradled against his chest. _What would their faces look like if they knew about those things? Even Sid, who had endured his own hell on the Canal and Gloucester, would he cringe away from this sin? Probably. It wouldn't be the first time.__

____

____

The sound of the doorknob turning brought his attention back to the present. Shayla slipped into the room, quick and quiet like a little deer. She carefully shut the door behind her then whirled around, a broad smile on her face, clapping her hands in front of her.

"Ok! So, in five minutes you're gonna go through that door," she pointed to a small door on the other side of the room that Eugene had completely failed to notice before, "and you're gonna have the time of your life!" 

Eugene scoffed good-naturedly. He didn't know about all that. He had no idea what this guy looked like, beyond Shayla's vague description, had no idea if he would be attracted to him on even the most basic level... or vice versa. Not that it even mattered. It was all business here. His leg started bouncing again.

"Here," Shayla's voice was soft as she walked over to where Eugene sat on the edge of the bed. She slipped a folded-up bill into his breast pocket. Eugene didn't remember giving her money, but he must have. Maybe at the bar? That part of the night was especially foggy. 

He made to stand, but she stopped him, tenderly taking his face in her small, warm hands. "It's gonna be fine. It's gonna be fun. I promise." She kissed him on the forehead and Eugene's eyes drifted shut. After a moment, she said his name expectantly, a smile in her voice. It took him a moment to realize that that was his cue. She really did smell nice. 

He stood and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thank you," he said. He wasn't sure for what exactly. The kiss? Being kind? Not judging him? Arranging this date? All of the above he guessed. Shayla seemed to understand. She just smiled after him softly as he walked to the door. 

Suddenly, he felt a smack on his ass. He whirled around to find Shayla grinning impishly at him. "Go get him, Tiger!" she laughed. He huffed and shook his head at her, failing to hide his smile as his shock turned to amusement. _Honestly. ___

____

____

He knocked lightly on the door, unsure of the protocol here. Did he just go in? Should he say something? Receiving no response, he cautiously turned the knob and moved forward into the shadowy room. He was immediately engulfed by a heady cloud of cigarette smoke and the smell of something else; something deeply familiar but hazy, like a childhood memory. It reminded him of the war, maybe China, but not in a bad way. The smell had little to do with the anxiety coiling like a snake in his belly. 

He was entering unknown territory. He took a deep breath and tried to embrace the pounding of his heart. Adrenaline had saved his life in the Pacific, and he would be a liar if he said that feeling the rush of it now didn’t awaken something inside of him that he thought had died upon returning home. He felt fully present, awake, alert and alive in a way that he hadn't in months. He didn't know what it said about him that part of him missed this feeling. He tried not to think about it. One foot in front of the other. Semper fi.

Through the haze of smoke, dimly lit by the streetlights below, Eugene could just make out a slim figure. He was draped casually in the balcony doorway, smoking, wearing only what appeared to be a short silk robe. One of the French doors was open and a warm summer breeze rustled its gauzy curtains. The man turned slightly toward Eugene.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Sledgehammer," the familiar drawl stopped Eugene in his tracks. Nearly stopped his heart.

For a moment, he was really and truly afraid that he had lost his mind. It happened. His father talked about it all the time. How sometimes the boys coming back from the First War had just broken. And not right away. Sometimes it took a while. Eugene was sure that when his father talked about these other boys, he was really trying to tell him that it was ok if he broke too. Which was good. Because it looked like that's exactly what was happening. 

Eugene reeled, his mouth opening and closing silently like a trout's. The sudden mixture of shock and adrenaline churned his whiskey-soaked stomach. He was barely able to choke words past the bile rising in his throat like an acid tide.

"I'm gonna puke!"

The slim figure from the doorway _(not Snafu can't be Snafu no way that's Snafu) _gave him an incredulous look, pale eyes bulging.__

____

____

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?!" he bleated.

When it became evident that Eugene was most certainly not, he tossed his cigarette out onto the balcony, whirled into the room, and quickly herded Eugene into the small en suite bathroom.

Eugene spent the next seemingly endless minutes curled over the toilet bowl, violently emptying his stomach. He was intensely uncomfortable, deeply humiliated, and regretting pretty much every decision that had led him to that point. Why whiskey? Why hadn't he just stuck to beer like he said he would? And what on God's Earth had convinced him that going to a brothel would be a good idea in the first place? Once he felt confident that nothing more was forthcoming, he sat back on his haunches and flushed the toilet. A glass of water appeared on the periphery of his vision. He took it gratefully and rinsed the foul taste from his mouth, spitting into the bowl and flushing again.

"Got some mouthwash too, if you want it," Not Snafu informed him. 

Just the thought of mint turned Eugene's stomach. He shook his head but held up his now empty glass. Not Snafu refilled it and handed it back. 

"Thanks," Eugene croaked. 

He took a few tentative sips, then handed the glass back. He attempted to stand, legs trembling like a newborn calf's. Not Snafu steadied him with a hand on his back and in the bathroom's harsh fluorescent light, it became undeniable. It really was him. It was Snafu. Those heavy-lidded sea glass eyes, the unruly curls and wry smirk - no one else looked like that. Somehow, after everything, Snafu Shelton was here. At a brothel. In a silk robe. Giving him water.

"What the FUCK are you doing here, Snaf?!" Eugene shouted.

"Could ask you the same thing, Gene!" Snafu replied.

There was a beat of silence as they both processed the insanity of the situation, before they dissolved into hysterical laughter. Eugene could barely breathe. His eyes burned with unshed tears and his abused abdominal muscles, still raw and exhausted from his earlier heaving, were screaming at him to stop. Still, it was the best he'd felt in recent memory. 

"Oh fuck," Snafu sighed, wiping moisture from his eyes.

"Haven't laughed like that since Jay shat himself," Eugene wheezed, gradually coming down.

They had fallen against each other during their laughing fit and both men seemed to realize it at the same time. Snafu pulled back awkwardly, nodding to the other room. Eugene followed wordlessly, falling into step as easily as if it were just another march through hell. 

However, the man in front of him was nothing like the filthy, feral boy who had been his shadow over there. This Snafu padded barefoot across plush carpet, clean and sleek as a jungle cat. His ragged, soiled dungarees had been swapped out for a brilliant sapphire kimono, white cranes ascending over inky mountaintops from hem to shoulder. Its silky fabric caught what little light there was in shimmering pools at Snafu's elbows and the small of his back as he moved. Eugene was transfixed. So much so, that he nearly ran into his friend when he stopped.

"Wanna smoke?" 

Snafu already had two cigarettes between his startlingly soft-looking lips, but Eugene nodded anyway. The Zippo's flame seemed to dance in the dark water of Snafu's robe, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the dewy hollow of his throat. Eugene was struck by the sudden impulse to taste him there. He knew he'd been caught staring when Snafu placed a cigarette between his open lips, smirking knowingly. He'd just opened his own mouth - to give Eugene shit, no doubt - when a rhythmic pounding on the wall interrupted him, a chorus of moans and grunts soon following.

"Damn it, Lola! We gotta install some kinda goddamn bumpers or some shit..." Snafu grumbled.

The sounds coming through the wall hit Eugene like a bucket of ice water, washing away any reckless confidence he might have fleetingly possessed on Shayla's bed. His heart started hammering in his chest as the reality of the situation suddenly became clear. He was here in this room to have sex with Snafu. Because Snafu was a prostitute and Eugene had paid for the privilege. Eugene sat heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as his breaths came faster and faster.

When he'd thought he'd be meeting a stranger, it had been nerve wracking enough. Only the idea of anonymity (and a gut full of booze) had given Eugene the balls to go through with any of this. But now that it was _Snafu _\- a man he'd spent nearly every moment with for two years, a man who knew him in a way that no other soul on earth did, a man he couldn't stop thinking about – well, that changed things significantly.__

____

____

Eugene's head began to swim, his leg bouncing frantically. _Snafu is a prostitute. Snafu is a homosexual. Snafu knows that I'm a homosexual. And that I've just paid for a prostitute. A male prostitute. Who is Snaf. I've never even HAD sex and now I'm going to pay to fuck Snaf in some brothel in New Orleans?? _The cold grip of panic seized his chest like a vice. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of there.__

____

____

 

**MERRIELL ******

********

********

_Well ain't this just a goddamn bitch of a situation? _Merriell hadn't had a clue what to expect from their surprise reunion, but Eugene literally puking at the sight of him and then going all thousand-yard stare? Well, that was definitely not the reaction he'd been hoping for. But then Merriell had gotten a bit of a head start on coming to terms with... whatever the fuck was going on tonight. He'd also had the good fortune to have his freak out moment all by his lonesome. So, he decided to cut Eugene some slack. Watch him for a bit, see if he could get a read on him.__

____

____

He pulled out the well-worn deck of cards that he kept in the top drawer of the dresser and began shuffling. Down time between clients could get boring and boredom was dangerous these days. It was better if he could keep himself busy, one way or another. Sometimes he played solitaire or built card houses, but most of the time he just shuffled. The rhythmic motion relaxed him, allowing his thoughts to flow freely like water over river stones. So, he shuffled as he watched Eugene, letting his mind swirl around him and the bizarre situation they were in.

At some point, when they'd been stuck together on those shit stain islands, Merriell had learned to read Eugene Sledge like a book. (Better than, if he was honest. Reading had never been his strong suit.) Combat being what it was, it was important to know the man next to you. Was he lazy? A coward? That shit could get you killed. You had to suss 'em out quick. Decide if you could trust 'em to do the job and have your back. (Come to think of it, he'd probably picked up that skill at the brothel. After all, it was just as important to know who you were dealing with between the sheets as it was under fire.) He let the cards riffle and slide smoothly between his fingers.

But from the beginning, it had been apparent that the cute new guy wasn't going to make it easy for him. He was quiet, polite but reserved, preferring to scribble his thoughts into the little Bible tucked safely at his breast, rather than blurt out whatever fool thing was on his mind. In Merriell's experience, most quiet people were just dull. But such a fire had burned in Eugene's coal dark eyes that Merriell'd been sure his scribbling had to have been at least mildly interesting. His curiosity had steadily grown.

After the airfield, it had reached a fever pitch. The nice, quiet boy had come back for him. His first taste of battle and the damn fool had willingly run back through that gauntlet of hellfire - for him. That had been... unexpected. Later, perched in the rafters of a ruined building, Merriell hadn't been able to decide if it was the dumbest or the bravest thing he'd ever seen. So, he'd prodded him. _Saw you readin' last night... Writin' too... ___

But Gene had been coy, not giving a solitary shit about military protocol or Merriell's prying. _Guess I won't show it to 'em then. _Brave it was. After that, Merriell had been hooked like a fish, his curiosity an unquenchable thirst. So, he'd set about studying Eugene. He'd gotten called out many times for his "creepy staring", but not by Gene so he hadn't given a shit. By the time they'd shipped home, Merriell could translate every little twitch of Gene's brow, the subtlest change in the set of his mouth, even his careful non-expressions, into the words he wasn't saying. It got to where they'd have whole conversations with barely a word passed between them - convenient when Japs'd been prowling not five feet from their foxhole.__

____

____

But now it looked as if they were fighting a different enemy. Merriell's hands slowed to a simple overhands shuffle as he studied his friend. Eugene was hunched on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped protectively around his middle, staring at the floor, his breath coming in quick shallow pants, leg bouncing so fast it was practically a blur. Merriell recognized the signs. It happened to him sometimes when he was out at the flea market or some other place with too many people, too much noise. He just wasn't sure what had set Eugene off. It was about as quiet and peaceful a night as you got in the French Quarter. 

_Unless it's me. _Merriell's hands almost fumbled the cards as his gut twisted. Maybe all he was for Gene was a bad memory, a ghost... But no. You didn't laugh like that with a ghost. And frankly, you didn't eye fuck a ghost like that either. Merriell smirked, remembering the heat in Eugene's gaze as he'd taken in his attire - or lack thereof. No, Eugene had seemed pretty fucking comfortable when he'd been undressing Merriell with his eyes. His jaw had practically been on the floor. Until loudmouth fucking Lola had started up. Then BOOM total lockdown. He'd gone scrambling back inside his shell so fast it was spinning.__

____

____

So, probably what it was, was just a general freak-out regarding the nature of the establishment and the activities undertaken within. Eugene, being a good Christian boy (whom Merriell had pegged as a blushing virgin within the first five minutes of their acquaintance), would naturally feel a bit uneasy in a place like this. Toss in a hearty dash of _oh-no-I'm-a-homo _and Merriell could see how it could all get on top of you. It was kind of a lot.__

_____ _

_____ _

He stopped shuffling. Eugene's eyes snapped up to his for an instant before immediately dropping back to Merriell's still hands. It was enough of a glimpse for Merriell to confirm his suspicions. Shock, panic, shame, anxiety. None of the shit swirling around in Eugene's eyes had any right to be there. Merriell needed to get him out of his head, and fast, if they wanted to make the most of tonight. 

He started dealing the cards into a pile beside Eugene on the bed, and waited. 

On Pavuvu, when all they'd had to do was sit around, trying not to let the fear consume them as they waited to be tossed back into the war machine, they would play cards. It had started on Gloucester. Merriell had taken one look at Burgie's ashen face and known that he had to pull the guy back from whatever hell window he'd been staring into. Merriell didn't know shit about feelings, but he'd practically been born with a deck of cards in his hands. He could play nearly every game there was – had even made some up himself. So, whenever he saw the darkness taking hold of a friend, he'd start one. (And if he happened to also win a shit ton of cigarettes by gambling on said games in the process, well that was neither here nor there.)

Eugene stared blankly at the cards for a moment before wordlessly picking them up and arranging them in his trembling hand. When he finally looked up, his lashes were wet but his resolve seemed firm. The corner of his mouth even twitched.

"Got any twos?" Merriell smirked.

Eugene made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh and nodded jerkily. He produced two cards and handed them to Merriell, their knuckles brushing lightly in the exchange. Merriell tried not to let the simple contact undo him as he settled himself on the bed across from him. As they fell into play, the sounds from the next room quieted and Eugene seemed to come back to himself. Before long they moved on to more difficult games, neither of them speaking beyond the simple phrases needed to progress play. They were on their second hand of rummy before Merriell finally broke the silence.

"So, what brings a nice, God-fearin' boy like Eugene Sledge to a house of ill repute, hmm? And in New Orleans no less! You get lost on the way to church, Sledgehammer?" he kept his tone light and teasing, watching Eugene carefully to see how his volley landed.

Eugene shot him a baleful look over his cards.

"Bachelor party," at Merriell's comically raised eyebrows he quickly added, "Sid's."

"Ah," it was stupid, but for a fleeting moment relief flooded through him. "The legendary Sidney Phillips!" he crowed.

Eugene predictably rolled his eyes. Merriell had never missed an opportunity to rib Eugene over his obvious infatuation and he certainly wasn't about to stop now that he was ninety-nine percent certain he'd been right all along. He was about to make a remark to that effect, when Eugene tossed his cards down with a smirk.

"Gin!" 

"God damnit," Merriell grumbled. He was secretly glad they weren't keeping score. He gathered up and reshuffled the cards. Eugene watched his hands intently and Merriell basked in the attention. He made sure to add in a couple of fancy flourishes before dealing.

"So, what about you, Snafu? What brings you here, huh?" Eugene asked, not taking his eyes off of him as he picked up his cards.

The question shouldn't have taken him as off guard as it did. Merriell had known it would come up one way or another. But Eugene was looking at him in that way of his that always made Merriell feel like a bug pinned to a board; like Eugene was reaching right into him, unspooling the thread of pain and fear and ugliness there and following it back to its source.

He shifted a bit on the bed, his stomach twisting into a hard, anxious knot. "You wouldn't understand."

Undeterred, Eugene kept at him. "You worked here before the war, didn't you? That's why you'd never say, when the guys'd ask what everybody did back home."

"Yeah, well you know, I just didn't want ol' Bill Leyden finding out 'cause I knew he'd come knocking down my door tryin' to pay half price and shit." Merriell threw his cards down onto the bedspread and stood. He suddenly felt far more sober than he was, felt far too much – period, his heart beating frantically against his ribs.

"Snaf -" Eugene started.

Merriell stalked over to the armoire where he had stashed his rum. "If we gonna be havin' this kinda little tête-à-tête, I'mma need to get on your level."

Merriell threw his head back and took a deep swig of the rum, relishing the burn. He let his arm return limp to his side, the bottle knocking against his leg. How could he possibly explain all the things that had brought him here - the abandonment and rejection, the hate and violence, the poverty, fear, and loneliness. Eugene didn't know shit about those things. He was too good for them. Too good for him. 

Merriell heaved a heavy sigh and returned to the bed. He silently offered the bottle to Eugene who took a sloppy gulp, grimaced and handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Merriell took another deep swallow before answering.

"Yeah. I worked here before the war. Pretty good while before."

"Why?" The word dripped with confusion and contempt. Merriell bristled.

"Because I like to fuck and I like to make money, ok?" Merriell spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

Eugene clicked his tongue and turned his face away. Of course. Of course, the precious little angel couldn't handle even that. Fine then. If he wanted to sit there and turn his nose up at him, he could get the fuck out. 

"See, ain't many things I'm good at – hell, I barely got a fifth-grade education - but you don't need a diploma to take dick and you'd be surprised how much it pays when you're as good at it as I am!"

Eugene just shook his head, not meeting Merriell's eyes. 

Shame and indignation burned in his chest. "I told you, you wouldn't fuckin' understand."

"Snaf, if you need money, I can help you out. Maybe even see about getting you some work. My mother's been harping on me to get a job at my brother's bank. I'm sure I could -"

"I don't need your fuckin' _money _Sledge! Did you not hear me? Suckin' dick pays real good! I got me an apartment with a view! Almost got enough for a new Chrystler! I don't need _shit _from you!" Merriell shouted.____

_____ _

_____ _

"But you don't have to - you shouldn't – why would you _degrade _yourself like that?!" Eugene sputtered.__

____

____

"Degrade my- Are you fucking kidding me?" Merriell leaned forward, getting into Eugene's face. "You sure didn't give a shit 'bout _degrading _when you came in here paying to stuff your cock in some guy's ass!"__

____

____

Eugene shoved Merriell back hard and Merriell socked him in the face. 

"Fucking hypocrite! You got some fuckin' nerve comin' here judgin' me!"

The words were barely out of his mouth before Gene's fist interrupted. For a skinny guy he had a hell of a right cross. The punch caught Merriell square in the jaw causing his teeth to slice into the tender flesh of his cheek. The pain set something dark and ugly loose inside of him - memories of another disappointed man punching him for what he did with his dick. 

Merriell snarled and lunged for Eugene, knocking him backward onto the bed. He swung his fists blindly, seeing only red. Eugene grunted and swore beneath him, but easily blocked the worst of the blows. He squirmed beneath Merriell and bucked his hips up hard, throwing Merriell off balance in more ways than one. Eugene used the split second of distraction to grab Merriell's arm and flip their positions. He growled and pinned Merriell beneath him, slamming his wrists into the mattress, grip so tight Merriell could feel his bones grinding together. They froze, their heaving chests the only movement as they panted against each other's lips.

Merriell went limp, as if his strings had been cut, rage draining away on the ebbing tide of adrenaline. In its place a sudden, aching awareness rushed in and filled his senses. Merriell had never been so close to Eugene - forced intimacies of war notwithstanding – and he was suddenly drowning in him. At this distance Merriell could see the little golden ribbons streaking his dark eyes, honey in blackstrap molasses. The breath from his petal-thin lips was hot and sweet with rum, the spicy scent mixing deliciously with the one that was uniquely his own. He was also surprisingly heavy. The warm, solid weight of Eugene holding him down flipped all Merriell's switches from pissed off to turned on. Eugene may have been acting a fool, but Merriell was only a man and his cock stiffened between them. 

He expected Eugene to scramble off of him then, squawking in awkward virgin panic – maybe even hit him again - but he didn't. Instead, his gaze roamed slowly, pointedly, from Merriell's eyes to his lips, down the column of his throat, across the exposed skin of his chest where his robe gaped open. His stare was so heavy with intent that Merriell could almost feel it trailing over his skin. He'd seen that look on more Johns than he could count. But he'd never (outside of fevered jerk sessions) seen it on Eugene. The reality was so much fucking hotter than anything he could have imagined. He shuddered and unconsciously drew his tongue across his bottom lip. Eugene tracked the movement like a lion watching a lamb. 

He surged forward without releasing Merriell's wrists, and captured his mouth in a bruising kiss. Merriell had always assumed that Eugene was as pure as the driven snow, but now he was starting to wonder. There was nothing pure about the way Eugene kissed him; hungry and dirty, licking into his mouth with the sure finesse of practice, his rough lips just skating the line between lust and violence. Merriell ached to get his hands on him, to get a hold of those pretty ginger locks and pull, to grab and touch and feel, to finally, _finally _have him. He groaned and arched up into Eugene, desperate and helpless for more. He bucked his hips and the silk of his robe created a delicious friction, Eugene's cock sliding hot and hard against his own. They were pressed so close, Merriell couldn't tell whose pulse he could feel pounding in his dick. He tore his mouth away to pull in a ragged gasp. Eugene buried a moan in his neck and panted there for a moment, trembling, like he was trying to get a hold of himself. Well, Merriell wasn't having any of that shit.__

____

____

"Done already, Sledgehammer?" he purred in his ear. 

He hooked his leg over Eugene's hip, pressed a foot into his lower back and ground up hard against his bulge. The broken sound Eugene made ran down Merriell's spine like electricity. He suddenly released one of Merriell's hands to grab a fistful of his hair and tugged his head back. Merriell swore and writhed as Eugene covered his throat in filthy open-mouthed kisses. He dipped his tongue into the hollow like a cat lapping milk from a dish and placed sucking bites along the curve from his neck to shoulder.

Eugene tightened his fingers in Merriell's curls, and sucked hard at the tender spot just under his ear. The combined sensations sent a hot chill rushing straight to Merriell's cock. He knew he should stop him. He was definitely going to leave a mark, which was bad for business. People didn't like to be reminded that they were getting sloppy seconds. But the thought of Eugene marking him gave his throbbing dick other ideas and he couldn't bring himself to do more than groan and shiver helplessly. 

Eugene pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Merriell's. His pupils were so blown his eyes were like black glass. Merriell clumsily shoved a hand under his shirt, frantic to touch. As he smoothed his hand over the soft, hot skin of Eugene's flank - still pulled too taut over his ribs - and ran his shaking fingers up the knobby ladder of his spine, a sudden fierce wave of emotion squeezed his chest. Eugene took a deep, shuddering breath, apparently feeling it too. They started rocking together in earnest. Their movements quickly gained speed and desperation, years' worth of tension building and building like pulling on a rubber band. 

A loud rapping on the door snapped the band in an instant.

"Time is up!" Franco's booming voice announced from the hall.

_FUCKING FRANCO! Of all the fucking times to do your job, fuck! _Visions of the portly foreigner's violent death flashed before Merriell's eyes. He was going to skin him.__

___Eugene froze, teeth clamped onto Merriell's collar bone, then scrambled off of him as if he'd been burned. He pushed himself back against the stack of flat pillows and looked at Merriell, open-mouthed and panting, as if he'd never seen him before. His sudden absence left Merriell cold and aching from more than just blue balls._ _ _

_____ _

_____ _

"Five minutes, Franco! Fuck!" he called.

"No five minutes. Three. Next client waits in parlor," came the heavily accented reply.

Merriell watched Eugene's face crumple and twist as he processed the words.

"Gene - " he moved toward him across the bed, hoping to salvage something, but the damage had been done.

"So, how much do I owe you?" Eugene demanded tightly, standing and straightening himself with rigid, angry movements. He wouldn't meet Merriell's eye.

"Damn it, Gene. You know it's not like that," Merriell was mildly horrified that his voice came out a pained whisper.

"No? Well, what's it like then?" Eugene spat.

He cut his eyes at him then and Merriell wished to God that he hadn't. So much betrayal and rage burned in their inky depths that Merriell had to look away. Eugene scoffed cruelly and slapped a wad of bills down onto the dresser. 

"This should cover it." 

With that, he was out the door and gone. 

Merriell curled in on himself. He raked his fingers though his hair and willed his eyes to stop burning. He refused to cry. He had to pull himself together. After all, he had another client.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was completely preoccupied with thoughts of Snafu and the brothel. He kept turning that night over and over in his mind, worrying it like a stone in his pocket or a sore in his mouth. Fresh layers of guilt and shame adding every day to the pile of regrets already suffocating him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I've decided to make this a multi-chapter fic instead of a series. I'll probably stick to one POV per chapter, but they will still alternate. Hopefully these changes will help me update faster? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ This is my first time writing something of this length, so I'm learning as I go. Thanks for being patient with me!

**EUGENE**

The last dying embers of afternoon sunlight seeped through a crack in the curtains. The weak rays refracted through the amber liquid in his glass, staining the paper beside it a sickly yellow. Eugene stared down at the blank page. Why was this so hard? It was just meant to be a quick note. It wasn't complicated. There was no need for flowery prose. But he just couldn't get the words out. The ones he needed to say were all jumbled up with all the ones he couldn't.

~~_Dear_ _Merriell_~~ _(_ Ridiculous. He never called him by his Christian name. _)_

~~_Dear Shelton_~~   _(_ No, he only called him that when he was irritated with him. _)_

~~_Dear_ _Snafu_~~  (That just seemed an odd juxtaposition of formal and casual.)

_Snaf_ _u_ _-_

_I have been sitting here for some time trying to write this note_ _._

Eugene snorted. That was an understatement. He tapped his pen against the desk, the single line taunting him. What did it matter anyway? Snafu was probably going to take one look at the return address and tear it into a thousand pieces. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and chucked it at the waste basket in the corner. It fell pathetically short and landed among the half dozen others littering the floor. 

Heaving a sigh, he plunked an elbow down on the desk and dropped his head into his hand. What  _did_  it matter? What was he hoping to gain from this clearly fruitless endeavor? Peace of mind? Closure? Forgiveness? 

He'd fucked up. The more time went on, the more glaringly obvious that fact became. He'd couldn't stop thinking about that night, about all the cruel, ignorant things he'd said.  _W_ _hy_ _would you degrade yourself like that?_ _How much do I owe you?_ They repeated over and over in his mind like a scratched record. He kept seeing Snafu's stricken face, hearing the rage and pain in his voice.  _You got some fuckin'_ _nerve_ _comin_ _' here_ _,_ _judgin_ _' me!_   _You know it_ _ain't_ _like that._ It was haunting him. Even if Snafu never read the letter, Eugene had to write it. He had to do  _some_ _thing_. 

He pulled another sheet from the stack in the drawer and ran a hand through his greasy hair, noting idly that it was badly in need of a trim. He heaved a sigh and took a long pull from the tumbler. Alcohol was a slippery slope these days. He'd never had much of a tolerance for the stuff, but lately it was the only thing that seemed to dull his raw edges. If he had just the right amount, found just the right balance, the cacophony in his head would become pleasantly muted, nothing more than background noise, and he could almost pretend he was normal. Too much though, and he veered toward maudlin crying jags or screaming tantrums. 

For the moment though, he was hovering somewhere in between. Frustrated, anxious, pent up, but too lethargic to do anything about it. He rubbed the back of his neck and took another drink. He didn't usually drink rum - his father preferred bourbon and brandy -  but some masochistic part of Eugene had specifically chosen this. The sweet, spicy burn brought to mind supple lips, a strong, lithe figure wrapped in silk, the addictive taste of tawny skin. Eugene shifted in his chair. It wasn't just the bad parts of that night that haunted him.

A familiar, rhythmic series of knocks startled him out of his thoughts as Sid opened the door, not waiting for a response as usual. His eyes fell on Eugene, and his smile faltered, just slightly. Anyone else might have missed it. But not Eugene.  _Here we_ _go_ _again._ He sighed and turned to face him but didn't bother to paste on a smile.

"Sitting in the dark again?" Sid needled him good-naturedly as he swept into the room, clicking on lamps. Eugene squinted against the sudden brightness.

"Didn't realize the sun had gone down," he replied, his voice creaky from disuse. "I was writing."

Sid's eyed the blank piece of paper on the desk. "Uh huh..."

Eugene began repetitively tapping his pen against the desk. The habit irritated Sid to no end and Eugene knew it. Sure enough, Sid gave him a pointed look, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyebrows raised. Eugene stopped, but couldn’t help the rush of childish satisfaction he felt at getting a rise out of his friend.

"So..." Sid rallied, shoving his hands into his pockets and smiling solicitously. "Wanna come over for supper?"

"What's the occasion?" Eugene asked warily.

"No occasion." He rocked back on his heels. "Just haven't seen you in a while is all." When Eugene didn't immediately respond, he continued, "Mary's making fried chicken I think." 

Eugene's favorite meal. Something was definitely up. He turned back to the desk and shrugged, "Not really hungry. Thanks though."

Sid's placating mask suddenly dropped, aggravation clouding his features and furrowing his brow. "Come on, Gene! Quit bein' like this!" he demanded, his voice tight with strain.

"Being like  _what_?" Eugene snapped, not turning around.

"Look, I know I've been busy with school and spending a lot of time with Mary but -"

Eugene laughed mirthlessly. "Is that what you think? That this is about  _you_?"

There was a beat of silence in which Sid's face rapidly shifted through at least four different expressions. "Well, right up until you said that, I did, yeah!" he cried.

When no more than a scoff was forthcoming from Eugene, Sid continued. 

"Then what? What  _is_ this about Eugene? Ever since the bachelor party you've been... " he trailed off, making a vague gesture with his hand.

"What? I've been  _what_ Sid?" Eugene demanded, peering over his shoulder.

"Different! I don't know!" Sid shouted, tossing himself into the armchair in a sideways sprawl. He leaned his head back onto the arm rest and closed his eyes. "Something is obviously... wrong and I just want to help." He pinched the bridge of his nose tightly and sighed. "We all just want to help but you damn near take our heads off any time we try!"

It was true, of course. Since the bachelor party, Eugene had indeed felt different and wrong. More so, even, than the usual different wrongness that he'd felt every day since coming home. He was completely preoccupied with thoughts of Snafu and the brothel. He kept turning that night over and over in his mind, worrying it like a stone in his pocket or a sore in his mouth. Fresh layers of guilt and shame adding every day to the pile of regrets already suffocating him. But of course, he couldn't tell Sid that. 

Eugene peered over his shoulder at him. Dark circles were smudged beneath his friend's usually bright eyes and he looked thin, like he hadn't gained a pound since Pavuvu, despite the near-compulsive efforts of Mary and his mother. He had indeed been busy with school – pre-med was no joke. And what free time he did have, he naturally spent with his new wife, setting up house. However, Eugene wasn't sure those were the only reasons for his exhaustion. 

They had spoken little of their shared trauma, alluding to it only in broad strokes when Eugene first got back - their guilt and bewilderment at returning home healthy and whole when so many had not; their difficulty reacclimating to a society not rooted in killing and dying. Though Sid had never said so outright, Eugene was pretty sure he had nightmares too. He wondered if Sid also felt different and wrong. 

A sudden pang of fondness seized Eugene. Despite his busy schedule, despite his own demons, Sid worried for him, enough to come and harass him. He felt his posture soften, the tension melting from his shoulders. He actually was kind of hungry.

"What time?" he asked without preamble.

"What?" Sid looked up, startled from his own thoughts. Or possibly he might have nodded off. Eugene wasn't sure.

"Supper. What time ya'll eating?"

"Oh! Um," Sid checked his watch, "'round seven I guess."

"All right then," Eugene replied shortly. That would give him enough time to make himself somewhat more presentable anyway.

Sid looked like he was going to say something but then seemed to decide better of it. Instead, he treated Eugene to his warmest smile, the one that suffused his whole face with a tender light and never failed to make Eugene feel like he was the center of his world, if just for a moment. Eugene felt a blush creep up from his collar and his mouth suddenly went dry. He cleared his throat awkwardly and Sid's smile grew wolfish. Damn him. He always knew.

"All right then," Sid parroted back. That same warmth curled around his words, making them sound like something else entirely, an endearment or a promise.

Eugene turned back to his desk, straightening it needlessly as he waited for the color to recede from his cheeks. He was ridiculous. Still pining away uselessly after all these years, for something that would never go anywhere. First Sid, now Snafu - practically the only thing they had in common was how unavailable they were. Why did he insist on torturing himself? The letter was a fool's errand. He was only glad he hadn't wasted more time on it.

He stood and walked Sid out, only half listening as his friend chattered away about his anatomy class. He made sure to nod and smile at the appropriate moments but his mind was decidedly elsewhere.

\---

It was a little after seven when Eugene pulled up to Sid and Mary's. His mother had been so pleased to find out that he was leaving the house – and to  _socialize_ no less - that she had bustled around him like an excited hen, fussing with his hair and straightening his tie, delaying him several minutes. 

He tried not to glare up at the house as he parked in front of it. It didn't deserve his ire. It was a good house. Cozy but well-built and well-maintained. Sid and Mary had purchased it shortly after they were married. Sid liked its reasonable price and close proximity to the campus. Mary liked its full set of modern appliances and the beautiful red maple in the front yard. But Eugene couldn't stand it. 

Not the structure itself. He wasn't personally affronted by the picture windows or the wainscoting in the hall. He just hated what the house  _stood_ for. He and every other fighting man who'd had the senseless good fortune to make it home alive, was met with a list of expectations once he did. Go to school, get a job, get a house, get married, have a baby, have another one.  No one seemed to understand how foreign and absurd those concepts felt when for years your imperatives had been more along the lines of: march, run, shoot, kill, pray, repeat; when you'd spent so long surviving, you'd forgotten how to live.

Not that Sid seemed to be having any difficulties in that regard. Go to school. Check. Get married. Check. Get a house. Check. He had started ticking boxes as soon as his feet had hit American soil and he didn't show any signs of slowing down. Which was great. Eugene was happy for him. He didn't want his friend to struggle like he did. He might have been a bit envious though. Even in this, Sid excelled while Eugene struggled to keep up.

As he raised his hand to knock, he heard Mary's tinkling laughter from inside and felt his mouth quirk up despite his sour mood. He may have hated the house, but he loved Mary. Everyone did. It was impossible not to. She was charming and vivacious without being vapid or phony, intelligent and beautiful but down to earth. And she was ceaselessly kind. Despite being a newlywed, she always made room for Eugene at her table - and apparently, he wasn't the only one.

"Well, hello stranger!" a soft, honeyed voice greeted him as the door swung open.

Ah, Carolyn Oliver. Mary's best friend and recent maid of honor. It was all starting to make sense. It seemed there  _was_ an occasion for supper after all. Mary (and to a lesser extent Sid) had been trying to set Eugene up with Carolyn since the wedding. Eugene smiled in what he hoped came across as pleasant surprise.

"Carolyn! Fancy meeting you here!" 

The same words from an altogether different reunion tumbled from his mouth. He tried not to let his smile falter as his heart clenched painfully in his chest. The tiny blonde seemed oblivious, however, and embraced him warmly before ushering him into the house.

As they entered the kitchen, the air grew hot and thick with the mouth-watering fragrance of herbs and butter, meat and bread. Eugene inhaled deeply, stomach growling in appreciation. Even if everything else went to hell, he was at least glad he'd come for the food. 

"That smells like heaven, Mary!" he told his hostess.

She winked playfully over her shoulder at him as she took the chicken out of the oven. "Well, you've been a tricky fox to catch these days, so we decided to lay a little trap. Foxes do love chicken after all!" she declared, setting the hot dish on a trivet on the counter.

Sid had the decency to look sheepish at that as he picked at the label of his beer. And Carolyn seemed as uncomfortable as Eugene, bright red splotches staining her pale skin all the way down her neck as she gathered the silverware. Eugene laughed nervously and did his best to segue into small talk as they went about setting the table. 

Thankfully, the conversation eased as the alcohol flowed and soon they took their seats. Sid and Carolyn on one side of the table with Mary and Eugene across. They joined hands and bowed their heads as Sid said a short grace.

"Lord, thank You for the food before us, the friends beside us, and the love between us." 

At this last, Carolyn squeezed Eugene's fingers tightly in her damp, fleshy grip. Eugene could barely wait until Sid said "amen" to extricate his hand. Under the table he wiped it on his pant leg as discreetly as possible.

The food proved to be every bit as delicious as it had smelled. Eugene dug in with relish, years of his mother's etiquette lessons the only thing between him and licking the plate. He had fantasized about meals like this, when he'd been choking down maggoty rice day in and day out on those godforsaken islands. Yet his appetite had been spotty at best since returning home. It felt good to be hungry now, to know that his hunger would be sated. But the ghost of that old island emptiness still loomed.

The table erupted into laughter, pulling Eugene from his thoughts. Carolyn was in the middle of an amusing anecdote about the children in her Sunday school class. Despite missing the first part of the story, Eugene laughed along. Carolyn had a dry wit and he genuinely enjoyed her delivery, regardless of the details. Still, it didn't stop the uncomfortable twist of his stomach when her face lit up at his laughter. 

He liked Carolyn. She was clever and earnest and good. She didn't deserve to be led on or let down. However, that outcome seemed inevitable. He didn’t blame his friends for trying to nudge them together. In a different version of this life, they would have made a natural pair. Just not in this one. He spent the rest of the meal thinking of the kindest way to disappoint her.

They cleared the table to play cards. Mary shuffled clumsily while explaining the rules of the game to Carolyn. Her small hands fumbled the deck, scattering cards across the table. As Eugene helped gather up the errant rectangles, he willed himself not to remember the last time he'd played. He tried not to see a pair of large, calloused hands moving rhythmically, thick fingers deftly sliding with practiced ease. He tried not to think of how those hands had felt on his skin. He failed of course. As the cards were dealt, he could think of little else.

"Gene?" He was brought back to the present by Mary's voice.

"Sorry, what?" His head whipped up from where he'd been pretending to study his hand. He hoped his face wasn't too red. He would just blame it on the beer if it was.

"I said, 'don't you think?'" Met with Eugene's blank stare, Mary continued. "That they look alike? Sid and Carolyn?" 

"Oh!" He quickly darted his eyes between the two blondes. Their matching expressions - expectant and a little uneasy - were as alike as their fine features. Christ, how much conversation had he been tuned out for?

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, definitely," he nodded adamantly. "Same coloring, same curls – they could be twins." 

"Yes! See? That's what I was saying! They look more alike than Sid and Kathy even!" Mary crowed.

"I dunno. I don't see it. She's much prettier than me for one," Sid countered giving Carolyn a shy, flirty smile.

She giggled and flushed at the praise. Mary stealthily kicked Eugene under the table. It was all he could do not to turn and give her an incredulous look. This was getting ridiculous. Did they really think he was this clueless? This helpless? 

"Now Sid, don't sell yourself short. Put a little effort in, maybe throw on some rouge, a little lipstick, and you could be the belle of the ball!" he teased.

The deflection worked. Everyone laughed and spent the next several minutes suggesting various make-up and styling tips to enhance Sid's natural beauty. But Eugene could see that Carolyn was disappointed that he hadn't risen to the bait and complimented her. He felt awful. No matter what, he was going to hurt her, whether with honesty now or lies later. 

He wished he could just take her aside and tell her the truth, like he had with Shayla. However, he doubted the pure Christian daughter of Reverend Oliver would be as understanding as the whore from New Orleans had been. Funny that. 

And besides, if he told Carolyn, she would likely tell Mary. And if Mary knew... well, Eugene wasn't ready to face that. She may have been fine with Gene the Bachelor – it was such a lark to play matchmaker after all - but she might be less inclined to let her husband socialize with Gene the Queer. And when they had children? His dream of becoming doting Uncle Gene would be destroyed. No, Carolyn could never know. Eugene took a card from the draw pile and tried his best to reengage with the conversation that had once again moved along without him. 

"That must've been why I took up with Sidney in the first place," Mary was saying.

"And I here I thought it was my boyish charm!" Sid replied.

"No, honestly! When we first met, you reminded me of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on  _who_ for the longest time. But you remember that first time we all got together –  when we went swimming?"

"You mean when we threw you in the pool," Carolyn smirked.

"Yes! You two sneaks just got along like a house on fire and it hit me! Carolyn! He reminds me of Carolyn!"

"So, you're saying you got together with Sid because he reminded you of your  _girlfriend_ _..._ who threw you in a pool?" Eugene asked incredulously.

"Yes!" Mary insisted, to laughter all around. "I mean, admittedly there were some glaring differences..."

"Glaring? Sheesh, I see how it is..." Sid muttered.

Mary rolled her eyes and continued undeterred, "But it occurred to me that I was seeing all the things I'd always loved about Carolyn, only in a body that I could love too."

Sid waggled his eyebrows at her and Eugene was fairly sure there was some footsie happening under the table. Mary snorted and tossed her cards down. 

"I fold."

"It makes perfect sense though," Carolyn said. "At the end of the day marriage is just companionship - being with someone you can  _stand_ _for_ the rest of your lives. It makes sense that you'd be attracted to people like your friends."

"I dunno. Can't say I'm attracted to redheaded bookworms," Sid laughed, pulling two cards from the deck.

Eugene scoffed bitterly.  _Just_ _'_ _cause_ _y_ _ou can't say it, d_ _oesn't_ _mean it_ _ain't_ _true._ He looked up from his cards to see three pairs of eyes trained on him.  _Shit._ He hadn't said that out loud had he?Thankfully, he had a good cover.

"Vale Godfrey?" he asked, raising his brows pointedly.

The tension immediately dissolved into raucous laughter. Sid blushed and hid his face in his hands as Carolyn slapped him playfully on the shoulder and Mary hollered an extended "ohhh!" 

Vale Godfrey had been their high school valedictorian and was as well known for her fiery locks and icy demeanor as she was for her formidable intelligence. Sid had had a crush on her their entire junior year – right up until she brutally rejected his prom invitation.

As the playful teasing died down, Eugene and Sid locked eyes across the table. Relief, gratitude and something like guilt were etched in the lines of Sid's brow. It was a look Eugene was well familiar with. He had no idea what, if anything, his own expression revealed - he had long ago perfected a stoic mask – but the old hurt and resentment still glowed like hot coals in his chest, even after all this time. 

Mary, ever the attentive hostess, seemed to notice the shift in the air. As she looked between them, her cheerful expression stuttered for a moment, brows and mouth turning down in puzzled concern. She quickly propped them up again and gracefully moved the conversation along to other topics, but Eugene wondered exactly how much she suspected. He reassured himself that it was probably not much. 

Mary was sharp, but she was also a proper southern lady, and as such, had been sheltered her whole life. Men like Eugene simply weren't spoken of in her world. She likely didn't even know men like her own  _husband_ existed. She probably just thought that the conversation had stirred up some unsettled rivalry over the affections of Vale Godfrey. Eugene huffed a private laugh into his beer.

The rest of the night passed in an uneventful blur. However, as he and Carolyn were getting ready to leave, it became obvious that they were being nudged together yet again. Mary and Sid were both suddenly and conspicuously absent from the foyer as Carolyn struggled to get into her coat. Eugene dutifully helped her manage the unwieldy garment and suddenly found himself standing rather close to her. 

Her cheeks and nose were rosy from the alcohol and a few errant curls had come down around her face. She also had a magnolia blossom pinned behind her right ear that Eugene had somehow failed to notice before. As she gazed up at him, soft and winsome in the low light of the hall, a sudden thought appeared in his head as if from under water. _M_ _aybe_ _it wouldn't be so bad_ _._ Unbidden, more thoughts followed in a rush.

His friends and family would finally stop wondering and worrying. He'd never have to break Carolyn's heart. He'd have a companion, a friend, someone to come home to at the end of the day, someone who'd hold his hand and make him chicken dinners. Someone who'd take care of him when he got old and gray. He could be doting Uncle Gene, maybe even have children of his own to carry on the Sledge name.  _M_ _aybe_ _it wouldn't be so bad_ _._

Suddenly, Carolyn leaned up and pressed her lips against his. And it  _wasn't_ so bad. Her lips were soft and tentative and it was over very quickly. If Eugene hadn't known any better, he'd have thought that was enough. But knowing better didn't change anything.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me," Carolyn said, ducking her head and hastily fastening the remaining buttons of her coat. 

"Don't be," Eugene told her. When she refused to meet his eye, he tilted her face up with a finger under her chin and returned her kiss. "Don't be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorrrry! Lol I promise there will be more sledgefu in the next chapter (which I'm already halfway done with)! And remember, comments go in, writing comes out! So if you liked it, please let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallowed the lump in his throat and two aspirin. It was too fucking early to be thinking about Eugene.

**MERRIELL**

"Merr-OW! Merr-OW!"

Merriell steadfastly ignored the unholy, yet familiar, yowling. The tiny, leaden feet slowly impaling his bladder, however, were too much to ignore. He swatted blindly at the insistent mass of fur on top of him, refusing to open his eyes. He could see the sunlight through his eyelids and even that was too bright.

"God damnit, Lamar. Get the fuck off'a me," he croaked, twisting so the bladder-destroyer was unceremoniously deposited onto the ground.

His mouth felt gluey, his throat tight and dry. He needed a drink. He cracked his eyes and was mercilessly assaulted by the sun slicing his retinas. He clambered up off the patio chaise, its plastic slats sticking to the skin of his back and thighs as he rose. As he unpeeled himself – ssshick – he vowed never to pass out on such an unforgiving piece of furniture again. His first, unsteady step collided with an empty bottle. The glass clattering against the cement patio felt like it was inside Merriell's skull. He winced and ground the heels of his hands into his gritty eyes. Water. He needed a drink of water. Maybe some aspirin too.

He shuffled slowly into the house, stretching his arms above his head. His shoulders made a grinding noise, the left one popping uncomfortably. Apparently, his joints weren't too happy about his decision to collapse on a lawn chair for the night. Merriell snorted. Soft bitches seemed to have forgotten that he'd been sleeping in foxholes filled with mud, blood and shit not so long ago.

In the bathroom he pissed for what felt like forty years. He washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, then messily guzzled three handfuls of lukewarm water directly from the tap - his body too desperate to wait a moment longer for hydration. Suddenly, he was crouched at the edge of the airfield on Peleliu - mouth splintering with thirst, passing a single canteen of life-giving water between half a dozen men, most of whom were doomed to die. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and saw Eugene do the same in his mind. The memory of his face was like a punch in the gut. He swallowed the lump in his throat and two aspirin.

It was too fucking early to be thinking about Eugene.

Lamar paced and yowled in front of the bathroom door, a long-ago flea bath making him wary of entering the room. As Merriell made his way through the little house, the cat frantically wound himself through his legs, causing him to stumble.

"Christ, settle the fuck down! Ain't like ya starvin', fat ass."

The tabby lashed his fluffy tail against Merriell's ankles and darted in front of him again.

"God damnit! Go on!" Merriell cried, kicking at him ineffectively.

Heaving a sigh, he admitted defeat and followed the relentless fur ball to the kitchen. He opened a tin of food and dumped it into the dish, swallowing down the urge to puke as the fishy smell reached his nose. Holding the ashtray-turned-water-bowl under the tap to fill it, he wondered when he'd become so whipped by a damn cat. _Sure as hell never thought I'd be pussy whipped._

The bad joke was the kind of thing Burgie'd say, thin mouth barely quirked, laughter twinkling in his eyes like a secret. Merriell's hand trembled as he set the dish down, some water sloshing onto the floor. He swore and tossed a dish towel onto the spill, leaving it there as he staggered to the living room.

Already exhausted, he collapsed onto the couch. He flung one arm over his eyes while the other pawed around blindly in the cushions for cigarettes. A partial pack, only slightly smashed, was soon recovered from between the cushions. Thankfully, Drunk Merriell had also seen fit to leave a lighter wedged nearby. For a long time, he just laid there smoking, waiting for the nicotine, water and aspirin cocktail to kick in. He could feel beads of sweat forming and pooling together on his bare skin. It was already so goddamn hot. What time was it? What day was it?

He was pretty sure it was Sunday. The sounds of the street outside were hushed. Like everyone who wasn't at mass was walking on eggshells, afraid to get caught. For a town so fond of sinning, New Orleans still flocked to the pews every week. Though if Merriell knew anything about his city, he'd bet it was the confessional that drew them more than the pulpit. In any case, if it was Sunday, Ms. J's place would be closed. Not many men were brave enough to sin on Sunday.

Without opening his eyes, Merriell groped behind him for the telephone on the side table. He sat the base on his chest and dialed the numbers by memory, receiver crammed between his shoulder and cheek. Sure enough, it rang and rang and rang. Rose would have to be dead in the ground to let it ring more than twice. _Closed then. Thank fuck._ He returned the receiver to its cradle and let his arm hang limp over the side of the couch. With all his remaining energy, he tried very hard to think of nothing and no one.

BRRRRIING!!

Merriell nearly jumped out of his skin as the telephone on his chest suddenly rang, vibrating his ribs and turning his internal organs to quaking Jell-o. He scrambled to pick up, desperate to stop the painful thrashing of his brain against the walls of his skull.

"JESUS FUCK - HELLO?!" he yelped into the receiver.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must have the wrong number. I was looking for Merriell Shelton, not Jesus Fuck." Shayla's voice trembled with barely suppressed laughter.

"Shayla, I swear to fuckin' God..." he panted, his heart still galloping in his chest.

Taking obvious joy in his suffering, she asked, "Did you pass out by the phone again?"

"There some reason you callin' me at the ass crack'a dawn or can I hang up on you now?"

"It's three o'clock in the afternoon, Merriell."

"Hangin' up now!"

Shayla clicked her tongue at him. "God, you're such a bitch when you're hung over – which is all the time now, by the way."

"Buh-bye!" Merriell began to pull the receiver away from his ear.

"Damnit Merri, you said you'd help! You promised," Her voice went thin and strained, all traces of humor suddenly gone.

For several beats there was silence on the line. Merriell closed his eyes as the realization dawned. Fuck. He'd forgotten. They'd made plans weeks ago. Compared work schedules, shuffled shifts around and coordinated their days off. He'd promised. He never fucking promised anything to anyone. But this was Shay and that kind of shit mattered to her. So, he'd promised. To come over and help her repair the fist holes in her walls. Because this was Shay, who always said she was fine, even when she definitely fucking wasn't, who never asked for help, even when she definitely fucking needed it. But she'd finally asked. And he'd finally promised. And then he fucking forgot.

"Fuck, Shay. I forgot. I'm sorry. I'm on my way now, ok?"

"You fuckin' better be," she told him. He could hear the weary little smile in her voice and wanted badly to squeeze her.

Instead, he hung up and hurled himself off the couch. Quick as he could, he scrubbed the stale sweat from his body, threw on a clean pair of beat-up clothes and jumped in his car. Most hardware stores would be closed given it was Sunday, but Merriell knew of a place on Canal that was a sure bet. It was out of his way - he'd have to double back to Shay's in the Marigny - but it was also run by a nice little Jewish guy who treated Sunday like any other workday and who just so happened to like his ass fingered every other Tuesday afternoon.

Now, Merriell didn't usually give half a shit who his Johns prayed to or where they made the money they paid him. The bed of a whore takes all kinds, as Ms. J liked to say. And under normal circumstances, Merriell wouldn't take advantage of the information he picked up there either. Mutual discretion was pretty much the name of the game, after all. But these were not normal circumstances.

If he showed up to Shayla's empty-handed, she might never forgive him. He'd intended to pick up the tools and shit one day before work. He'd intended to show up with snacks and booze, maybe even a little tchotchke from the flea market. He'd _intended_ not to fucking forget. But he'd been hiding at the bottom of a bottle for weeks, so wrapped up in his own pain that he'd completely forgotten his best friend needed him.

As he pulled up in front of the shop, he mentally shrugged. Needs must and all that horseshit. The bell hanging on the front door of the shop jangled as he walked in. Sure enough, the man Merriell knew as Jacob (he couldn't read his nametag at this distance) was seated behind the counter. However, he was too busy stashing the magazine he'd no doubt been thumbing through to recognize Merriell's face as he walked in.

"Afternoon! Anything I can help you with, you let me know!" he called to Merriell's back.

Merriell grunted in response, mentally going over the list of items he needed. Patching plaster, putty knife, sandpaper... does Shay have a bucket? He doubted it. He grabbed one and started tossing the smaller items inside it. He wasn't about to waste a bunch of time going back and forth to the counter. He was late enough as it was. After he was pretty sure he had everything he needed – he was running out of room in the bucket regardless - he set his haul down on the counter and rang the bell.

Jacob (and it was Jacob, the little rectangle on his chest confirmed) came out of the back room, dusting his hands off on his apron, an eager smile on his face. As he met Merriell's eye however, that smile melted away into such a look of abject horror that Merriell had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. The poor son of a bitch was white as a sheet and looking at him like he had grown a second head right there in front of the goddamn mop display. Merriell almost felt bad for the guy.

"I'm all set," he told him, waggling a putty knife for emphasis.

Jacob blinked at him for a moment like he'd just spoken Chinese, then seemed to pull himself together somewhat, leaning on his customer service role like a crutch. He cleared his throat and once again brushed invisible crumbs from his hands. Then with a sharp little nod, he approached the register and began to ring up Merriell's purchases, his hands trembling as they punched the keys.

_Well shit._ Now he really did feel bad for the guy. After all, he knew just how awful it could be when someone showed up unexpectedly at your place of business. He swallowed heavily, remembering the panic he'd felt upon hearing Eugene's voice at Ms. J's. How dread and shame had crept over his heart like a cold, black shadow when he realized that his friend would soon find out what he really was. This was sort of the flip side of that, he guessed. Regardless, Merriell knew it wasn't easy when the two worlds you worked so hard to keep separate suddenly collided.

"Nice place ya got here," Merriell told him sincerely, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Really saved my ass too. Only place around open today."

Some of the tension in Jacob's shoulders seemed to loosen and he lifted his head, meeting Merriell's eyes briefly. He seemed to understand what Merriell was really saying, that he hadn't come here to fuck with him or to blackmail him. That he was just here for supplies like anybody else. Jacob nodded and the tight set of his mouth eased a little.

"It's what sets you apart that makes you succeed in business. No matter what you do," he said, giving Merriell a significant look as he put his things into a bag.

Merriell hummed in agreement. Jacob scribbled something on the receipt and added it to the bag. As Merriell took it, he gave him a small smile.

"Thanks for coming in," he told him.

"Any time," Merriell replied, slipping on his sunglasses.

As he started the car, curiosity got the better of him. He pulled the receipt out of the bag and laughed out loud. He'd only been charged for the putty knife. And at the bottom in small, tidy script the words, "for services rendered," had been added.

\---

"Oh my God! 'Services rendered'?" Shayla laughed around a mouthful of food. "Little fella's got a sense of humor!"

Merriell grunted his agreement as he shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. Shayla gave him an unimpressed look, so he made a show of sucking the mustard from his fingers as obscenely as possible. The display earned him a crumpled-up napkin between the eyes, the little paper ball bouncing off his forehead and down the steps of the fire escape to the ground below. As he chewed, he dangled his legs over the edge, swinging them idly like a child on a still swing.

If Merriell was honest, the rickety, metal death trap was one of his favorite places to be. He'd always enjoyed being up high. Whatever the opposite of a fear of heights was, he had that. Having grown up in the bayou - where people's homes and lives were destroyed on the water's whim - high places made him feel safe, like nothing could touch him. He supposed it made sense then, that he had craved them during the war. After the carnage of the airfield, he had perched high in the unsteady bones of a burned-out building (and looked down on Eugene's haunted face in shadow). During the butchery of the Pelelieu hills he had clawed his way to the top of a jagged rock (and looked down on Eugene's snarling face in sunlight). When the war had finally ended and the unimaginable concept of 'what do we do now?' had spun out in front of him, he'd stood atop the highest boulder, far from the cheering crowd (and looked down on Eugene's somber face in firelight).

High places weren't the only things that had made him feel safe back then.

He made a frustrated sound in his throat that he tried to turn into a cough. _Gotta stop thinkin' 'bout that son of a bitch._ He tapped out two cigarettes from the pack in his pocket and handed one to Shayla, lighting it and then his own. For a while, they smoked in companionable silence.

"Some spackle and a bucket ain't shit though," Shayla declared off-hand.

"Yeah?" Merriell asked, scrambling to remember what they'd been talking about.

"Mmhm. You really wanna play in the big leagues, you gotta get on Rita's level. One of her Johns pays her rent, bills, everything."

"Bullshit!" Merriell scoffed.

"I swear! That's what she told me!"

A lot of girls came into Ms. J's with that idiot dream in their heads – like Prince Charming was just going to waltz into a whorehouse one day and sweep them off their feet. But Prince Charming wanted Cinderella, not some chick who'd banged every Tom, Dick and Harry with five bucks and a load to blow.

"How the fuck she pull that off? She threaten to rat him out to his old lady or somethin'?" Merriell asked.

He doubted it. Blackmail was a surefire way to get booted out of Ms. J's and blacklisted from every semi-respectable joint in town. Mutual discretion was the name of the game and Rita had been playing it long enough to know that.

"Nah, I don't think it was like that. She said he knocked her up. So, he basically pays for the kid or whatever," Shayla explained.

Merriell tsked. Ms. J had him order rubbers for that place in bulk and they were shoved into just about every nook and cranny – figuratively and literally. And besides that, Ms. J had an arrangement with a couple of doctors across town who took care of that sort of thing at a steep discount. Nah, if Rita'd gotten knocked up, she'd known damn well what she was doing. Blackmail was looking a lot more likely. But something about it didn't add up.

"So you're tellin' me she got a kid at home and an old man payin' her bills and she still out here garglin' balls every night? Shay, that is the biggest, steamiest load of bullshit..."

"I know! I know!" Shayla laughed, throwing up her hands. "But I think she's telling the truth!"

Merriell gave her an extremely dubious look, but she was adamant. "She's definitely got money. Her clothes probably cost more than your car and she's gotta be at the hairdresser's every week to keep that red from fading."

Merriell knew it. He had taken one look at that hair and known it was fake as shit. He knew exactly what shade she was going for (saw it in his dreams often enough, Christ knew) but no amount of money could buy it.

"Oh, she got money all right. She just work for it, is what I'm sayin'," he told her, miming a blow job.

"She doesn't even work that much though," Shayla said, undeterred. "Three nights a week at most, right?"

Merriell pursed his lips in consideration. She had a point. Rita'd been a ghost since Merriell got back. When she used to work more than anybody else. If her sugar daddy story was just a story, then how was she affording all her fancy clothes and hair on three nights a week?

Shayla shrugged. "Maybe she just wants more than her sugar daddy's willing to pay. So, she's still gotta work."

Merriell looked at her as if she'd just implied the sky were green.

"If some fool was payin' all my bills, you best believe I'd never turn another trick."

Shayla flicked the butt of her cigarette over the railing and stood, brushing off her dungarees. "Who knows. Maybe she's saving up so her kid can go to Harvard or somethin'. I'm just sayin' you gotta up your game."

"Well try as I might, my womb is barren," he said, holding his flat belly. "So, I guess I'll just have to settle for the spackle!"

Shayla laughed out loud and Merriell with her, more from the relief brought by her joy than at the quality of his own joke. She'd been doing better recently, but every smile still felt like a tiny victory.

"Come on. Let's get to work," he told her.

He opened the window and they climbed back inside, Flipper vibrating with excitement at their return. Merriell tossed her the ham he'd saved from his sandwich and stooped to scratch her scruffy head. Shayla gave him a look over her shoulder that was half tenderness and half reproach.

"That's why she begs."

"She begs cause she's a spoiled little trash princess. Ain't that right?" he cooed.

He rubbed the dog's warm belly as her tail thwapped a manic rhythm against the floor. Merriell missed the little mutt. He'd given her to Shayla after he'd enlisted. It'd been harder than any other goodbye, but he hadn't really thought he'd be coming back. And then when he had - well, Shayla had needed Flipper around way more than him by that point. Merriell gave her one more full-body scritch before standing, hands on hips, as he surveyed the damaged walls. Sensing she wasn't getting any more treats or pets, Flipper hopped up onto the sofa, circled twice, then collapsed with a tiny huff.

Merriell had mixed up the plaster before lunch, as Shayla had been making the sandwiches. So, all that was left to do now was fill in the holes, wait for the spackle to dry, sand, paint and try to forget that the damage had ever happened. Looking over at Shayla chewing her nails to the quick, Merriell knew that last step was going to be the hardest.

"Why don'tcha put the radio on, huh? Make it go faster," he suggested, giving the thick goop in the bucket a stir.

Shayla nodded mutely and walked over to the box on the mantle. Twiddling the knobs, she scanned through commercials and static until the sweet, smoky sound of jazz floated into the room. Merriell recognized the tune, but didn't know the words, so he hummed along.

He scooped a dollop of spackle onto one of the flat trowels and handed it to Shayla. She took it with a small smile and walked up to the biggest hole. For a while she just stared at it - kind of a long while. Merriell watched with rising anxiety as the blob of spackle slowly oozed toward the edge of the trowel. He opened his mouth to say something, but at the last moment she slapped the trowel hard against the hole, and started spreading the plaster with quick, angry strokes. Merriell loaded up his own trowel and got to work on one of the other holes. There were so many. He'd forgotten.

He hadn't been over since that night, when she'd called him in tears, sirens wailing in the background. She either came over to his house or they hung out someplace else. Up til now, Merriell had thought he was being a good friend - opening his door to her 24/7 and going with her wherever she wanted. But now that he was faced with the scars left all over her home, he felt like a dick imagining her here all alone, trapped with her memories.

As he added more spackle to his trowel, he looked over at his friend. She was hard at work, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she focused on smoothing the plaster. She'd somehow managed to get some of the stuff on the tip of her nose. How could anyone hurt someone so stupidly adorable? It pissed him off every time he thought about it. But some people were just evil. Merriell knew that. He'd learned the lesson over and over again - from his hateful father; from the johns who thought paying a few bucks extra entitled them to cruelty; from the countless men who'd treated war like a free pass to torture and kill. Evil men were everywhere. He knew that. Hell, there were times he'd thought he was turning into one himself. Still. It didn't make them any easier to stomach. Good thing Vera wasn't around anymore. And wouldn’t be ever again. Merriell chuckled to himself.

"What's so funny?" Shayla asked over her shoulder.

"Ah, just thinkin' 'bout how Mr. Tough Guy here," he gestured at the holes in the wall, "is doing twenty-five to life thanks to a little rat dog and a girl with spackle on her nose."

Shayla furrowed her brow and rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand. It didn't help. Merriell laughed, but quickly sobered when she shrugged and said, "I didn't do much. If it wasn't for Flipper..."

Merriell tried to ignore the heavy feeling in his gut at those words. "Nah, nah. Don't gimme that. Flipper's a bad little bitch, but she can't dial a phone. Come on now."

Shayla chuckled weakly and shrugged again. She turned to the bucket of plaster and scooped some more onto her trowel. Damn it. This was why he didn't do shit like this. He was fucking crap at it. Why did he bring up Vera? Like that was gonna brighten the mood! 'Oh hey, remember your psychotic ex who tried to fucking slit your throat? What a laugh that was!' Jesus Christ.

"Nah, anybody can dial a phone..." Shayla's soft voice held a smile and the surprise of it pulled him out of his self-deprecation. "...but it takes a real hero to bite somebody's ball sack off."

After a beat of stunned silence, Merriell met Shayla's eye and they both dissolved into laughter.

"Off? Flipper bit it off? Holy shit!" he cried. He had to brace himself on the wall as his whole body shook with laughter.

"Almost! They told me he had to have surgery before they took him to jail. Like I fuckin' cared!" Shayla crowed.

"Oh man! I wish I'd known! I would've loved to send him a 'get well' card! Maybe some mixed nuts!" The last word shot up in pitch as he descended into giggles again.

After a while, they pulled themselves together and continued with the task at hand, their moods considerably lighter. Merriell wanted to tell Shayla how proud he was of her for surviving that fucking mad man, for finally getting free. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was that she'd ever had to deal with any of it, and how ashamed he was for not protecting her himself, but he didn't know how. So, he spackled and sanded and sang along badly to the radio.

A few hours later and they were back on the fire escape, smoking and watching the fireflies flirt with the twinkling lights of the city. It would be at least a week before the plaster was dry enough to paint, but Merriell promised to come back and help finish the job then. Shayla was saying something to him about potential paint colors - something about chartreuse, whatever the fuck that was - but he was having trouble following.

The fireflies were making him remember a warm night in China, drunk on rice wine, bobbing and swaying in the back of a rickshaw, Eugene's head lolling onto his shoulder, the smell of his clean hair and the feel of it tickling his chin as he turned to study the freckles along his nose. Merriell sighed raggedly and scrubbed his hands over his face. Shayla had stopped talking, and was looking over at him with her kind, sad eyes. Merriell squirmed a bit under the scrutiny.

"Where'd ya go?" she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a clever deflection, but was just too tired. And Shayla always saw through his bullshit anyway.

"China," he admitted, his lips curving into something like a smile.

Shayla nodded, as if she'd expected as much. "With him?"

He just shrugged. Sometimes he wished he'd never told her a thing. He hated being so obvious.

"Fuckin' men," she sighed. "Why don't we like girls again?"

"'Cause God is a sick fucker and wants us to suffer?" Merriell guessed.

"Sounds about right," she replied with a grim chuckle. She leaned her head onto his shoulder and they were quiet for a long time, blowing their smoke at the fireflies.

\---

The next afternoon started off well enough. Merriell woke before his alarm, with no hangover and found parking just one street over from the brothel - with shade to boot. It was almost fall, but the weather wasn't in any hurry about it and he wanted to avoid frying the leather seats if he could help it. Sure, he could've put the top up before he left the house, but it was a pain in the ass and he hadn't paid extra for a convertible just to be fucking around with the top all the time.

Early as he was, he stopped for a pack of smokes and puffed away leisurely, soaking up the sun and side-eyeing tourists as he ambled along toward the brothel. Finally, he ducked into the narrow side alley (only clients and delivery men used the front door) and the sudden shade raised goosebumps on his skin. As he wrestled with his key and the ancient, rusted lock (he'd have to get on the groundskeeper's ass about that), he saw Lola rounding the corner at an unhurried pace. She took off her sunglasses and tucked them in her purse, hips swishing slow and lazy like a cat's tail.

"Work again, work again, tickety-tock," he greeted her with a smirk.

"Work again, work again... to ride a fat cock!" she finished with a triumphant cackle.

Merriell laughed, "That was an easy one."

She shrugged and waited for him to open the door for her.

Lola was pretty much fluent in English by now, but Merriell still enjoyed helping her practice. Every day he changed their rhyme slightly and she had to finish it. Together they'd come up with some pretty good ones. His favorite so far had been when the parlor and some of the downstairs rooms had flooded during a winter storm. "Work again, work again, jiggety-jog..." he'd grumbled, wading through ankle deep water. "Work again, work again, to fuck in a bog," she'd replied testily. He'd laughed so hard, he'd fallen on his ass and into the dirty, freezing water. He'd ended up needing a shower and been late for his first client, but it had been worth it. How she'd even known what a fucking bog was, he still didn't know.

Merriell finally triumphed over the lock, the door lurching open suddenly under the weight of his shoulder. He grumbled some especially creative expletives (one of which Lola demanded he repeat twice with explanatory hand gestures) and chivalrously led her through the door, smacking her affectionately on the ass as she passed. The smell of yeast and frying meat wafted from the kitchen and Merriell heard Lola inhale deeply in front of him.

"Oooh, Franco is making the sausage things!" she gushed over her shoulder. "Tell The Wall I'm here, huh? I bring you one."

She was off down the hall before he could respond, so he just shrugged. He popped his head into the parlor and opened his mouth to speak, but the older woman at the desk beat him to it.

"Ms. Josephine wanna see you boy," Rose told him, not looking up from her work.

"What about?" Merriell asked.

Rose looked up at him then, one dark brow rising slowly into her hairline. As usual, she gave nothing away. Knowing better than to expect a response from The Wall in this kind of mood, Merriell sighed and started up the stairs.

He couldn't think of any reason Ms. J would be calling on him. He was paid up through the end of the month as usual, his most recent dick swab had come back clean, and he'd already put in the order for the lube. (The delivery was going to be a few days late - they'd been sold out of the KY bulk packs - but he'd rather wait for them to restock than get stuck using that generic shit again.) Ms. J usually trusted his judgement on these things too, so he didn't think it had to do with any of that. Merriell sighed. Trying to figure out why his madam did anything these days was a waste of time anyway. She'd been unpredictable at best since she'd started sticking a needle in her arm.

After scaling the last few steps, he paused in front of her door to collect himself – and catch his breath. He wasn't Marine fit anymore and three flights of stairs really kicked his ass. Of course, Eugene would've told him it was the half pack of cigarettes he'd smoked that day that was kicking his ass, not the stairs. But that didn't bear thinking about. He shook off the thought and gave the door two short raps. When no response came, he tried again with more force. Still nothing. _Fuckin' dope head's probably nodded off again._

"It's Merriell, Ms. J! You wanted to see me?" He was mostly successful at keeping the irritation out of his voice.

There was a pause and then rustling from deep inside the apartment.

"It's open, cher," she finally called. Her voice sounded heavy, as if it was pulling itself out of deep water, and Merriell detected a slight slur. He sighed and let himself in.

He'd spent quite a lot of time in Ms. J's apartment over the years - had even lived there for a while in the beginning - but every time he walked through the door, he felt the same as he had the first time. Like some dirty, broken thing that had gotten swept into a palace on a storm wind. Something to be removed by the help before it left a stain. Nobody but him made him feel that way - people in glass whore houses shouldn't cast stones, after all - but the feeling remained regardless. It'd been hanging around for damn near a decade so he figured it was there to stay. He shuffled awkwardly as he fought the urge to wipe his feet at the threshold and tucked his hands into his pockets.

Ms. J was sprawled on the chaise lounge in front of the window, eyes closed to the afternoon sun, a small smile on her upturned face. She was fanning herself with an envelope. She didn't open her eyes as he approached, but the corners of her lips curled like paper in a fire.

"This your P.O. box now, boy?" she drawled.

"Huh?" He didn't have a single goddamn clue what she was talking about.

She snapped her eyes open then, so suddenly it made him jump, and with a flick of her wrist, tossed the envelope at him. He lunged and fumbled to catch the paper rectangle, but it slipped through his fingers and onto the floor. Ms. J snickered as he bent to pick it up and he shot her a sour look.

"Look, I ain't got no fucking idea who'd be sending me shit here," he told her, straightening up.

It was true. This was completely out of the blue. Merriell knew better than to advertise his place of work and his clients knew better than to try and contact him off the clock. But who else would know that he could be found here? He turned the envelope over in his hand, brow furrowed in confusion. The paper was thick and cream-colored and seemed to have a little bit of texture to it. It felt good in his hands, expensive no doubt. That only made him more confused. _Who the fuck...?_

Then he saw the handwriting.

He recognized it before his eye even traveled to the corner for the return address. He'd watched that boyish scrawl unfurl dozens, hundreds of times. Had peered over a broad but bony shoulder and seen it squeezed into the margins of a tattered bible. Had sat too close and not given a damn as it had written reassuring lies to the folks back home. He'd never seen it form his name though. His hands shook and his heart trembled in his chest. He had no idea how long he'd been staring at the letter.

"You sure 'bout that?" Ms. J asked him, a smirk in her voice.

Suddenly Merriell wasn't sure about anything.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> I had hoped to have this whole thing completed by the end of the challenge, but unfortunately the real life challenges of co-running The Big Bang, moving cross-country and raising two kids under 5 proved to be too much. So, while it technically doesn't meet the Big Bang criteria in terms of completion and word count, I'm including it here anyway. (Because it's my challenge and I can do what I want. LOL)


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